


In His Father's Footsteps

by Little_Red_Hat



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 08:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18735415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Red_Hat/pseuds/Little_Red_Hat
Summary: A very quick drabble I wrote after watching the Moominvalley episode "Snufkin and the Park Keeper".It's Midsummer Eve, and as he hides away in the shadows, Joxter sees his son for the first time. As he watches the events of Snufkin's night unfold, memories from his own past begin to resurface.Is Snufkin just like him? Or does the young Mumrik have qualities that he lacks?





	In His Father's Footsteps

The river reflected the shimmer of the silver fishing hook as Snufkin cast it out towards the bobbing basket before him. Had he not been so preoccupied with gently pulling the miniature Mymble within to safety, perhaps he would have noticed the other glimmer further down the bank.

Two blazing blue eyes, with sapphire sparkle, looking out towards Snufkin from deep within the darkness of the woods.

The eyes of Joxter.

As the elder Mumrik observed his son from his hiding place, he felt a sharp pang deep within his heart as he witnessed Snufkin pulling the basket in, ever so slowly, before greeting the small slumbering traveller with a gentle smile.

Had _their_ reaction been the same? Those who had found Snufkin, so long ago? A basket: that was the humble vessel the Mymble had chosen when she'd decided to send their baby boy away, for reasons known only to herself. No scissors or wool balls then – only the tunic, hat and harmonica that Joxter had left behind with Mymble for safekeeping, and which were now among his son's few worldly possessions. Buttons were a different matter. There could, Joxter supposed, have been a few of those: remnants from the Muddler's vast collection. A clue, perhaps, to lead to their reunion someday.

Joxter hadn't known anything, of course. Nothing of a basket... or indeed, of Snufkin himself. It was only during a chance encounter with Moomin (or rather, Moominpappa, as he now was), one that had occurred only a matter of days ago, that he had learned the truth. _Had_ he known back then, he would have chased that basket downstream to the sea and beyond in order to save his son. But what was done was done.

Joxter longed to leap out... to shout over to Snufkin, to just say something. But what could one _say_ to a son that didn't even know he existed? How could he explain his innocence, his ignorance, the reason for being absent his entire life? What reason did he have? None that were good enough... that he could justify.

No – patience was key. In time, the right moment would come, along with the right words: he was sure of it. For now, he would simply watch and wait, following Snufkin from the shadows, with one burning question at the forefront of his mind.

_Was the boy anything like him?_

He watched as they walked along happily together: Snufkin playing his harmonica as the little Mymble sung the song of beasts' tails. It was one Joxter recognised: the mother Mymble had often sung it to her many children before bedtime. Perhaps Snufkin had recalled it in his most distant memories? And as for the little one... well, she was bound to be one of his beloved Mymble's brood. How funny now to see the two getting along like loving siblings, without any possible notion that that was indeed what they were. Or maybe part of them _did_ know – some secret part of their souls linking their hearts together without any need for revelations.

He felt Snufkin's anger as he had glared at the Park Keeper: the young Mumrik's hands clasping around the metal fence bars as they undoubtedly wanted to do around that moronic Hemulen's neck. It was a rage they shared – one shared inherently by all Mumriks, who believed the natural and glorious earth should be free and unbound. The beautiful rebelliousness of Snufkin's plot... the proud glee with which had strewn the Hattifattener seeds. It was a true master stroke: an act of benign and righteous vandalism worthy of his heritage.

As he watched his son staggering away from the Woodies, Joxter had needed to bite his tongue to suppress his chuckles. Oh, by a Moomintroll's tail, did he recognise that fear in his Snufkin's wide-eyed stare. It was that same overwhelming terror he himself had experienced in the presence of Mymble's many children, all looking to him for guidance and generosity. He was certain that those little eyes had been able to see right into his soul.

It was in the actions that followed, however, that the two had differed: Snufkin had, albeit after some reluctance, walked along with the little dirt-clad darlings to a nearby cottage: feeding them supper and washing dishes as he happily hummed along to the radio... a subtle reflection, perhaps, of his mother.

Joxter, on the other hand, had simply walked.

If only he'd been braver... found the strength to stick things out, to give family life a try. Perhaps then, his son would have grown up with a father... plus a mother and siblings to boot. It was something that he now deeply regretted. It made him proud, therefore, to witness Snufkin take to his unexpected parenthood like a duck to water. Clearly, the boy had a courage and resolve that he himself lacked.

Joxter had to smile. First he had become a father, and now a grandfather... all in a matter of days!

He saw Snufkin's shock when the small Mymble girl abandoned him – mirroring back his own words about needing time alone. Such phrases had often rested on Joxter's own tongue. He had used one along that line on that fateful night – the moment he had walked out of Mymble's, and his son's, life forever. He'd strolled away with that same confidence, that same arrogant attitude, without the tiniest inkling of the pain and sadness he had left behind.

Joxter resisted the urge to scream at the girl, to beg her to go back. After all, it wasn't really her that he was angry with. It was himself.

Before the night was out, it would become apparent that Snufkin's bravery manifested itself in more than just family matters. In the jailhouse run by those irritating and pompous Hemulens, he had been prepared to sacrifice that most precious treasure, his freedom, to save his innocent friend. Had Joxter been in the same position, he couldn't be sure that he would have done the same. Liberty was everything to him, and he had given up a lot to maintain it. Even the Mymble's love.

If he'd been able to sacrifice that so easily, then he could sacrifice _anything._

The end of Midsummer Eve didn't bring the right moment, or the right words. Snufkin, Joxter knew, had been through enough for one day. The shock of his long-lost father suddenly reappearing from the ether might just send him spiralling into insanity. But, for now, merely seeing the boy – and seeing strong traces of himself within him – had been enough of a blessing. 

Yes, the boy was like him. A Mumrik through and through, even if he was half-Mymble. But in other ways, he wasn't: ways that, quite possibly, made him a better person. He was a rebel, a free spirit, and yet, he had honour. Not to mention courage...  _true_ courage. All Joxter had was cockiness and bravado – all flair, but no real substance. And it had cost him everything.

As the moon rose, the only traces of Snufkin left in the woods were the prints left by his boots, forming a trail beside those of the small Mymble girl, deep in the marshy grass.

Slowly... almost nervously...  Joxter emerged from his hiding place, and tenderly stepped into one of the many boot prints.

It was like putting a key in a lock.

_Like father, like son._

_And yet... not quite._

 


End file.
